Page 29 of Dirty December

The truth is, I’m probably one of the most romantic people I know—but no one else knows it.

Minotaurs have a thing for protecting and serving. Acts of service are our love language. I dream about having a wife I can protect and help. She’ll look up at me adoringly. She’ll be so small next to me that every time I’m around her I’ll feel like I’mher living shield, a proud warrior—not just the guy who makes poison rings and recalibrates weaponized watches.

Yes, I said she’d be small next to me. Small and possibly on the helpless side. I admit it. I have a damsel in distress thing, but I’m not some neanderthal brute.

I blame history.

Pull up a chair.

My people were not always called minotaurs. We existed before that whole King Minos crap. We have been around as long as anyone else, human or “monster.” Humans feared us, the same way they feared other half-man, half-animals. The peaceable taurosapiens pulled back into the shadows, forming secret rural communities. Every community had an underground lair equipped with escape tunnels and traps to prevent violent humans from attacking the clan.

And then King Minos found out that his wife had become friendly with a local blacksmith (taurosapiens like metal). The way my mother tells it, Pasiphae was nothing more than a friend to the smith, who she had commissioned to make armor for her oldest son, the Prince.

Minos, who was already two hammers short of a forge, decided she was having an affair and went on a murderous rampage, killing one of his own children. My ancestors of course then urged the queen and surviving royal children to take refuge with us.

Well, you know how it is when you’re thrown together with someone day after day...

Yeah. Eventually, Pasiphae and Aspro (the smith) were secretly married and had a bunch of little half-human, half-taurosapien babies. And we started being called minotaurs. (I think we should have been calledPasitaurs. Why give that murdering idiot any credit? But you can’t change two thousand years of history overnight.)

Ever since I saw the picture in mom’s old history book, I’ve been a hopeless romantic. The picture is an old ink illustration that shows Aspro blocking the labyrinth entrance. His eyes are glowing red, his horns are glinting, and his nostrils are flaring. One hand holds a huge broadsword. The other arm is pushing Queen Pasiphae behind him. She’s looking up at him with such utter love and adoration.

I want that. I want a woman I would die for and a woman who would be by my side, adoring me as much as I adore her.

That isn’t going to happen in Pine Ridge.

There are two kinds of people here. One, there are people who know about the magical energies and entities who live here. They play it cool. They know that everyone isn’t what they seem. They’re all (99% of them) nice, normal-ish folks. What about the second group?

They are incredibly, stubbornly blind. They walk around with witches, wolves, succubi, and whatever else we have on tap, thinking that everything is normal. According to those people (all human), some of their neighbors are just a bit “eccentric.”

The people in the second group would all be dead by dinner time if Pine Ridge weren’t such a safe place to live.

Either way, I’m not going to find a woman who needs me here. If she’s a vampire, a werewolf, or a witch, she’ll be able to take care of herself and probably won’t want me being my overprotective self. If she’s a normal, oblivious human, she won’t ever meet me. If she did, she’d run in terror, and that’s no way to start a relationship.

Chapter Five: Milo

The Night Market opens at dusk, but the stall owners who can tolerate sunlight tend to come a little before so they can set up and not waste a single second of selling time.

Stalls are set up in a grid between the light poles in the lot. There are three rows. The ones closest to the street are run by residents who are human or who can pass for human. They also tend to sell stuff human “tourists” would buy, like crystals, fudge, hand-embroidered clothing, and more run-of-the-mill stuff. It’s not any kind of “human-looking equals better” mentality, believe me. It was decided a long time ago, back in the fifties when the Night Market was first getting set up, that this arrangement would help the more “unique” vendors stay safe. After all, no matter how oblivious a human is, he or she will notice if you’re about seven-feet tall and have horns coming out of your head. My stall is in the back row, the corner spot. It’s a prime location.

Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Kwanzaa, and Solstice weren’t too long ago, so there are still a dozen strands of multi-colored lights strung up between the poles. I think we should leave them up all year. It gives the market a bustling, festive air, and that’s important in cold, foggy, mountain towns in January. Festive, fun places attract customers who want to browse. Otherwise, people go straight to the stall they need, buy their potion or bat wings, and get the heck back home to their nice cozy houses.

“Milo! Hey, man!”

“Leo! Good to see you! Back from touring, Mr. Big Shot?”

Leo is a werewolf who is also in a local band. (It’s a pretty big deal in the NYC club scene, but he never brags. Actually, he rarely talks at all.) His wife is a witch. They’re some of my best customers because they’re part of the “Neighborhood Watch.” It’s not a full moon, so I don’t hurry to put my silver-tipped goodies away.

The stocky, auburn-haired man grins at me. “Out again next weekend. We’ll be gone for a solid week.”

“Ah. Looking for something to fend off those city demons?” I start moving weaponry around, sliding choice pieces forward for Leo to see. Everyone knows violent demons love big cities. Their kills blend in and get blamed on drug dealers and gangs.

“Actually, no. I’m packing Robbie. What else do I need? Plus, Tessa and Charlotte will be with us.”

I nod. The two-man band usually travels as a foursome, two sets of best friends, two couples. My heart stabs me in a way I wasn’t expecting. “What can I get you, then?” I ask in a gruff, clipped voice that shocks the hell out of me.

Leo doesn’t seem to mind. “Can you make me something pretty?”

I take out one of my tackle boxes. Tackle boxes are great for holding tiny tools and metallic parts like springs and screws. My boxes are covered with all kinds of band stickers. Skin Deep, the band that Leo is in with Robbie, another local (and vampire), has a fair amount of signage on my boxes. Leo sees the stickers and smiles.

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